


Hold you close

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor and Finwë have a few days all to themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold you close

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Unusual Positions square in my Season of Kink card.

“The sky looks strange,” Fëanáro mumbles as his father and he lounge side by side next to a low table while they finish eating a light supper in the morning room of Finwë's suite.

They are both naked, contently tired at the end of a day spent entirely with each other.

Indis had been invited to the wedding of a cousin, removed enough in kinship that Finwë, as High King, could decline to go with her and their children. He does feel guilty about it, but guilt is something he has learnt to live with, and to ignore if necessary.

“There is to be more rain this evening,” he says. He reaches towards a plate on the table, then gently nudges Fëanáro's lips open with his fingers, offering him the last morsel of honey cake.

Fëanáro takes it between his teeth, licking his father's fingers in the process. 

The sky outside is blanketed by soft-looking grey, and none of Varda's stars are there to peer in the room through the wide open windows. It hasn't started raining yet, but the air is heavy with the expectation of it.

Fëanáro drinks what's left of the strong, fruity red wine Finwë had ordered to go with their supper. He is tipsy, so that when they stand up he stumbles forward into his father's arms. 

Finwë kisses the top of his head, a feeling of pure beatitude washing through him. He is overjoyed to see Fëanáro so happy, so free of care, as he never was in his youth. 

“Will you let me have you again?” he asks, nuzzling his cheek against Fëanáro's hair.

Fëanáro's face is flushed with more than wine when he lifts glazed eyes up towards his father and murmurs 'yes'. 

His lips, still slightly swollen from the attentions Finwë has lavished on them during the previous night and a good part of the morning hover close to his father's. Finwë laps gently at them, then covers them with his own, suckling and pulling back in a fervent kiss. 

“I love you,” he whispers against them. He lifts Fëanáro. He doesn't carry him towards the bedchamber, where the bed is still unmade because he has forbidden anybody but Fëanáro's sons to come to his rooms, but quickly carries towards the chest of drawers where the silverware is kept. He sets Fëanáro down on it and sweeps the trinkets littering it – none of them of Fëanáro's making – off of the polished wood with his left hand. 

Fëanáro giggles at the sound, and leans back against the wall when the surface is clean. His legs fall open.

Finwë stands between them and presses against him, capturing his mouth in one more long, hungry kiss while his hands stroke up and down his sides. 

He momentarily leaves him to look for the lubricant. He finds the vial between two of the cushions of the sofa, where he had last taken Fëanáro. It hadn't been properly stoppered again, and some of the oil had spilt on the cushions, leaving a large viscous stain. Finwë takes the cork off, and pours the substance on the palm of his hand, stroking his cock as he walks back towards Fëanáro. The vial he balances precariously on the table, next to the empty wine-pitcher.

Fëanáro's hands draw his father close as soon as he's standing between his legs again, and Finwë's now slick cock slides delightfully against his own. He yelps and shivers. The oil is cold on his wine-flushed skin, and his father's touch feels to him headier every time it is renewed. Finwë chuckles against his lips, while he brings his fingers to his opening and massages it gently.

“I love you,” he says again when he takes his fingers out.

Fëanáro lifts both his legs off the floor wraps them around his father's waist.

Finwë bumps their foreheads together as he brings his cock to his son's opening. 

“Tatanya -” Fëanáro wails. 

Finwë smiles broadly. “My most beloved.”

He pushes forward with his hips and eases himself smoothly inside his son. 

The position makes for an unusual angle of penetration, and Finwë can tell from the way Fëanáro's eyebrows draw together when his cock brushes right against his prostate, and tries to repeat the exact same motion every time. 

At first Fëanáro lets him do, but as the pace of his father's thrusts pick up he isn't satisfied to just lie back any more. He starts pushing back against him, writhing until he has to hook himself with one hand on the edge of the dresser. 

Finwë leans even closer, pushing Fëanáro further back against the wall. His lips meet Fëanáro's again. They are completely locked together, and Finwë moans with every thrust – this is how it should be, how he wants it to be, always. 

Release builds up steadily, entrancingly, but he makes sure Fëanáro comes before him, fondling his cock with his right hand. 

Rains begins to fall while they are motionless – cheek to cheek, Fëanáro's legs still entwined around his father's waist, and Finwë's arms cradling him tenderly – and its soft patter on the trees outside the windows is accompaniment to the pleasure of shared orgasm as it settles to a cosy warmth within them.

Finwë uses his hold to lift Fëanáro again. He carries him to the rug in front one of the windows. He quickly retrieves his own dressing gown, screening the lamps while he's at it, and sits behind his son, wrapping himself around him and the garment around them both. 

They sit in silence in the near-darkness, listening to the rain. Finwë feels Fëanáro's breathing become slow and faint, and his body go slack. 

“Do you wish to sleep?”

Fëanáro nods, mumbling drowsily and burrowing back into his father's ample chest. 

“Sleep then. I will hold you safe.”


End file.
